Learning Your Lesson
by ParamoreXO
Summary: Swordsmanship demands intimacy. An ongoing collection of drabbles.
1. In the Mourning

acceptance, compassion, support

Swordsmanship demands intimacy, a lifestyle decree that Himura Kenshin knew all too well. Seasoned killers at the hilt such as himself were familiar with the sounds of men who writhed with air in their veins and who gagged on throat fulls of their lifeblood. The howls and shouts of agonized panic that came from clawing at an open wound, the sickening crack that resounded when metal splintered bone, the whisper of a vengeful promise on a warrior's dying breath all resonated in his endless nightmares.

If there was one thing Kenshin was grateful to his sword style for, it was the swift execution. Never had he been tempted to savor a drop of bloodshed nor in an enemy's suffering. In the time that it took for an opponent to bite the dust, he would already be in the act of cutting the next one down.

During those hellish years of death and destruction, he had never dreamed that he would ever again be allowed to find solace in the comforts and joys of marriage. Back then, the very thought of a woman's tender compassion and fierce support as he knew with Kaoru would have been beyond the bounds of possibility to him.

She was too much.

All that she was to him was more than he had ever dared to hope for. Kaoru's philosophy proved that those who wielded swords did not have to be without love in their heart for mankind. Every sin of his that she accepted made the strain of his burdened soul a bit more bearable. The past that she acknowledged helped him find closure in things left unanswered. She laid him to rest in a warm lap, a bed of passion, an honest home, and a welcoming embrace. She helped him engrave the tomb of his past with vows of life and love, promises in sickness and in health, and a final bid of mortal farewell.

Under her affectionate touches and the harsh scrutiny of the world, his cross-shaped scar began to fade. The grudges no longer ran as deep and his heart began to bleed for entirely new reasons.


	2. Sweet Discipline

hope, devotion, intensity

The fact was as certain and sure as the calloused grip on her bokken: swordsmanship demands intimacy. In the rush of blood that comes with an active body and wildly thrashing heart, fire burned throughout every muscle and licked each of her senses. When her and Yahiko's banter would finally grind on his last nerve, her student became terribly easy to read. His blind and brutal hacks became predictable. With fury stoking his dark eyes and indignation ripping from his lungs in a snarl, Yahiko became reckless in ways she had tried so hard to discipline. The rage she saw in him, no matter how brief, could never give life.

He didn't understand. Not yet.

One swift beating and hot spiel later, Myōjin Yahiko began to see the world of mortals from an entirely new angle, typically from the sore flat of his back, his body awkwardly sprawled across the dojo floor.

_The sword that protects. _

Her student was impatient and selfish. Though that often led to labored success, Kamiya Kasshin-ryū was merely a means to hold his own and to make an impression on Kenshin.

_The sword that protects. _

Her student had never taken a life, nor did he quite seem to value those of his enemies. His fighting spirit, however, refused to be smothered.

_The sword that __**protects**__._

Her student had once been helpless. As a novice, his ignorance would have been a disgrace to her name, but his slow understanding and flourishing sense of self as an honorable opponent would have made her father proud.

The sword that protects was no sweet lie.


	3. By The Throat

agitation, sorrow, healing

"You should not take your wounds so lightly, Kenshin." As grains of salt scoured Kaoru's skin and burned petty finger wounds, blood began to let from the cloth of her husband's shredded kimono.

To have thought the days of Kenshin's swordsman heroics were far behind him had been foolish. Although years had passed since Megumi had informed them of his limitations, the notorious war figure nearly jumped at every chance regardless to put himself in harm's way in order to protect others.

She had nearly forgotten the ring of an unsheathed _sakobatō_, the metallic scrape of pain and mercy singing throughout a sudden and hushed silence. It was as if, in that tense moment, all the air in the world would never be enough to fill her burning lungs. His name was the only thing that could ever escape her throat in these instances, the only clarity to her mind and the single restraint holding him back.

He froze, fumbled at the sound of her blinding, throbbing desperation, and took the brunt of their adversaries' blow in his rare slip-up. Mere moments after, Kaoru had been able to swiftly disarm the raging drunkard of his bloodied, broken sake bottle as Kenshin clutched at a gushing shoulder wound, gritting reassurances to a distraught Tae through his teeth.

"I know your scars and their fading histories, every stiff joint that will act up when we're alone together, but I was mistaken to think you knew just how capable I am at protecting myself."

He was looming over her handiwork, watching her intently. "That man spoke ill of you, Kaoru-dono. His words were most cruel."

Hardly able of keeping her frustration in check, the headstrong woman curled her fingers into her palm, nails digging into her skin through the ruined fabric gathered in her hands. "Then you give _me _the chance to defend myself and dissuade him!"

The way she glowered at him nearly made Kenshin recoil with guilt. His wrecked arm, now positioned in a sling, trembled with nerve-numbing pain. "This one simply… that is, this one only wanted—"

Disregarding her chore of tending to the aftermath of their incident at the Akabeko, Kaoru suddenly rose to level her stern gaze, willing him to understand the degree of her vexation. "Your intentions were noble, but they also showed that you do not trust me."

If he had not recognized the root of this spat, her words would have been far more cutting than his most recent laceration. That, he knew, was far from what his beloved wanted. Her actions the previous night had been fueled by fear, and now, righteous apprehension.

Drawing nearer to her, her shaking frame nearly flush against the front of him, Kenshin could sense the heat of her rage and the festering of a deep, soul-inflicted wound. Glistening, sorrowful eyes creased around the edges met her own through his scarlet tinted bangs. She readily held his pain.

"You shouldn't have to suffer anymore." Words reduced to a hoarse, timid whisper, they nearly took her by the throat. With a hesitant step forward, she gently settled her cheek against the warm cleave his fresh change of kimono offered, her fingers tentatively tracing the folds, taking time to listen to the strength of his beating heart. "I _will _prevent it where I can, Kenshin."

His free arm wearily wrapped around the small of her back and held her as close as she could get. "Arigatou," he murmered, the warmth of his thanks tangling in the stands like silk at the top of her head, "Kaoru-dono."

The weight of his burdens sank into her, but her frame, a temple of thorough discipline built to withstand many great trials, endured and helped him to stand.


	4. A Sword that Sings

He recognizes it when they clash—her wooden blade, unlike the thirsting steel of the countless opponents before her, does not call for blood. The sakabato in his grip becomes dull as he blocks her forceful strikes. She holds her own, yet retreats a step to measure him fully, for he knows she senses it. Though her conviction is strong, her weapon relents.

"What is this?" she demands. "Are you not the infamous manslayer, battousi? Do you deny tarnishing my good name?"

"This unworthy one is but a mere rurouni," he replies between ragged breaths and eases his stance. After a moment, she mimics him and finally lowers her bokken. With a free hand, she pushes back the dark bangs matted to her forehead. "The passion with which you defend your name is admirable," he tells her. "This one's blade acknowledges your honorable swordsmanship, for both are designed to protect precious lives."

"Huh?" she blinks. Suddenly, the tip of her weapon is in his face. His eyes cross to zero in on the threatening point.

"Oro?"

Her knuckles go white, bloodless in her firm hold. "So you _do_ recognize my sword style! You must be the one disgracing it with senseless murder! Your sword is not of any innocent design."

His blade sings through the night air when it strikes hers. Before she can move to counter his abrupt blow, his eyes lock on hers and he wills her to hold back. His eyes have a peculiar glint in the golden moonlight. "It is unmistakable!" he insists. "This one knows you feel it."

"What are you talking—"

"Look at my blade," he prompts. "It is incapable of killing. Only its wielder will ever feel its cutting edge."

"How strange," she muses lowly, as if speaking to herself, and withdraws her offense. He holds the odd weapon out for her to examine further. "You're right, it's not fashioned in any traditional sense. I've never seen one like it."

"You have similar reasons to fight," he states, sheathing his weapon. "When our blades connected, they were in harmony despite your onslaught. There is an understanding between them—they do not kill, but rather protect those who cannot protect themselves."

"You have beheld _Kamiya Kasshin-__Ryū_at the hand of its Master. Tell me, rurouni, what swordstyle do I have the honor of beholding?"

"This one hopes you do not ever have to set your eyes on its swift and unforgiving nature, Master Kamiya."

She bows with chills running down her spine. "Nevertheless, it's an honor to have such a respectable opponent," she says as she straightens to face him. The humble man's clothes are in tatters with holes at the hem of his ragged hakama. The straps of his footwear have been rebound many times. His plain kimono is faded, parted to reveal the dirt streaked with sweat on his chest. Odd in its ruddy tone, his hair has slipped from its secure ponytail, matted to his flushed cheeks.

"Oro?" he murmurs and cocks his head to the side.

She blushes in a shade that rivals his own embarrassment. "Oh!" She's been staring. How rude. "I was just thinking… Do you—do you need a place to stay? For the night, I mean?"

Now he begins to stare. "This one cannot—" he splutters.

"You can wash up while I prepare dinner!" she exclaims and cuts off his protests. "It's the least I can do for wrongfully accusing you of something you so strongly resent. I still have some of my father's old garments, too. You can change into them if you'd like!"

It is difficult to deny her insistence. He meekly agrees, if only to accompany her home, what with a rampant murderer running around. It's a sound decision, he reassures himself, for the woman whose blade sings.


End file.
